Short Narration Poems

Emotion in relation to pleasant
thought narration or recollection.
Reason for joy is for satisfied need
or for mystified retrospection.
~x~...

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2 words--

Wholeness

And separation..

The narration goes

One word searching

For the other

An unending search

Without the paradox:

All words are 

Empty already......

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CHEERS

Limericks have been here for some 500 years
With a view of giving good cheers
From great inspiration
To expelled narration 
Mine was written after a few beers

Indiana Shaw . . . ; )...

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Sir David Attenborough is an amazing naturalist
Traveling the world over in search of wildlife with a twist
Unique and fascinating
A slave to his narration
Such eye-opening visuals, such an envisionist...

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A poet, Charlotte Bronte (pen name Currer Bell),
was eldest of three sisters; novels she wrote as well.
A  Gothic style in first person narration she wrote with flair,
giving us novels ahead of their time, like the popular Jane Eyre....

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I am Name, the leader of the cast.
If all should fall, then I shall be the last.
Invisible, beyond what players see,
The play would be for nought, if not for me.
And so we're at the start, where I begin.
For them, I stand without; for you, within....

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a mindful watch 

lounges immanence

 simple measure

across the diamond sky

 stars fall

remarkable moves 

 visible light

blinding silent

 narration is the shimmer 

impressions exhibit 

 touch battered and savage ...

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...a phone visit with old friend
Listen did I as he filled me in
on all the current doings
of his life.
Then,
as a pause slid-slipped into his monologue,
I said,
I have to move away.

Blink.
Blink.
His narration continued,
...you know, I thought I'd explore Naples after Rome....

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Inspiration, my salvation,
Haven’t seen you in awhile.
Perhaps you thought that my fixation
On narration
Was sufficient cause for your exile.
If that be true, then some quotation,
Or citation,
From famous works from out the past
Might light my way to other paths 
And help to get me through this barren mile....

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And the story goes on and on....

I try to mend myself
Inside and outside.
I need to reach somewhere
And I need to start walking
For that destination.

Darkest dreams also have a fake narration
In me, in you.
You will simulate that thousand times
And I will purposefully fail the test
Exactly thousand times.
Nothing more. Nothing less....

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Startled by the hallucination
of himself upon the wall
The man of a compromised conscience
cringes with apprehensive velocity


Debilitating panic emerges
with a disconcerting air of predictability
Transporting him, intangibly, to a setting that prohibits
his own narration
Forcing him to endure his biography
without any preferred revisions...

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What a creation!
A creature of elation
Gave me a sensation
Of heart palpitation
It ate a carnation
In the midst of lunation
And grew with inflation
For such a duration
That held my fixation
Itself a flotation
Until it's deflation
And sunk for hydration
Spotted like a dalmation
Yet more like a crustacean
That gave me causation
To realize my narration
May only be imagination...

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Hope that provides inspiration, fear that triggers desperation; 
Love the sublime feeling that makes life worthwhile with elation, 
Anger that destroys all that's good thus resulting in an unhealthy narration,
Happiness - the inexhaustible currency that provides life a sturdy foundation;
All these emotions discrete parts of a larger whole - each a fragment of life. 


Penned on 25th February...

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My head is aching, it's a skull pounding sensation.
My hands are shaking, from the constant anxious narration. 
Trying to breathe deeply, keep this train from leaving the station, 
I know this is my own diffident manifestation. 


For me anxiety is an expectation;
I stop talking to myself and start to listen, 
Let this fear become an infestation, it was all of my own creation. 
This is my cowed vocation....

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Tug and pull
Spit and spat.

The battle lines 
Have been drawn.
This war will be over.
Before the next dawn.

“Stop!”, She shrieks
Loud and eerie
Her eyes full of tears
And very bleary.

How can I choose a side.
 How can I fight in a war,
I did not start.

Each side
A worthy cause.
The narration of each story.
Make you swing from side to side.

Stop! This battle can’t be won.
I declare each side wins.
All be it by half....

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sun tanned unevenly, foxed
grimy fingers caress bruising
pounded by day's narration
churlish in onyx, was its hint
over feathered combs, see, 
of flicked, creased pages
buried, stained words
were never read
while cold rooms grow colder
an author's sweat for nothing
stemmed the reader's keen
though skimmed at best
and your dilated pupils
captured out-of-breath palates
so I travelled second hand
yesterday, for just over a quid...

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In spring,
in summer,
in winter,
it is a goddess i love.

In the glimmer of dreams,
in the mischief of eyes,
in the smell of days gone by,
it is a goddess i have always loved.

It is a goddess i love.
It is a goddess i have always loved.
It is the face of a goddess that comes to me.


In the narration  of the evening wind,
in the spreading of the clouds,
in the setting of dusk,
i leave the world entire,
and at her feet retire....

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He had pulled in many springs
but failed to find a heaven.
Asked not to look away. In

absences he tried to enter
the wounds again. An aboriginal
pain flies over my shoulder.

A spiritual failure of mankind ?
Counting unctuously the birds nesting
on an invisible tree.

This narration has no vocabulary.
Only oily sounds of original
lunacy. You want to cover

an empty canvas. A self-portrait
was abandoned after
the cloudburst of slogans.


Satish Verma...

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try to guess my age
im not in the nomenclature
homeostasis the focus
of uncommon creatures
personality a drama
with Rome's creators
im not so quick 
to pick a person's savior
encourage till my epitaph
life outside the bed and bath
bless the spirits im a philomath
the chaos just beyond
fingertips

hit or miss 
a linguist 
still insists

a singers wish

a single fist
aerated 
the narration
a basement
where ignorance
is barricaded

with a fire at the station...

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Nocturne

When the evening dawns before the morning star has settled and
	telescopes are bent on insight mirroring the dark side of the moon
where scorched lenses dangle from molten lightning’s focus clear in dusk
	of stars behind the prisms of reflection condensed into sleep’s night
The time-place has arrived to shed the tombs of inner refuge’s prison
	to harvest deluge from inundated waters and lure the sun
enchant the story of narration in poetry and view the light where it belongs...

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